


He Notices Me, Noticing You

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya curses his luck, knows fully well he’s in trouble now. He’s been careless and Waverly has somehow noticed. And that means he has to find Napoleon, lets him know, even if he doesn’t want to. Illya doesn’t want him to hear it from anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Notices Me, Noticing You

“This is none of my business, and I don’t really care what you gentlemen do outside the call of duty, or even if while you’re on duty, as long as it doesn’t jeopardise the mission you’re on, but is there something going on between Solo and you that I should know of?”

Waverly’s question catches Illya off guard. He’s not entirely certain what the Englishman had meant. After their debrief, Waverly had held him back only to ask him this? Why when he’s alone and not while Napoleon and Gaby in the room? He blinks at his superior. Honestly he’s not quite sure how to answer Waverly. He thinks he might have an inclination at what he’s getting at but decides it is best to go for a safe answer. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand what you mean,” Illya says, tries his best to keep his voice level. 

Waverly leans forward, his arms propped up on his desk.

“Well I know both you and Solo have had your differences when you first started working together and truth be told I’m glad you’ve managed to sort your differences out. Can’t have my agents at each other’s throats all the time.”

Illya nods, answers shortly. “Well, yes if that.”

Waverly gives him a wry smile. The Russian is doing a pretty good job at looking perplexed. He certainly has picked up a few of Napoleon’s traits but Waverly knows it’s good for their espionage job. They certainly are, together with Agent Teller, his best agents at the moment. 

“You really do not know what I’m talking about, do you Kuryakin?”

Illya shakes his head, says firmly, “No, I don’t.” Illya’s voice does not betray the fact that nerves are running through his body at Waverly’s scrutiny.

Hearing his answer, Waverly leans back in his chair and decides to cut Illya a little slack. Perhaps he’ll ask him again when he’s ready with an answer. “Well, it’s okay then, Kuryakin. But if you ever come around, once you’ve wrapped your head around my question, let me know the answer.”

Illya makes a funny noise in his throat. He then nods, quickly leaves the room before Waverly decides to ask him anything further. As soon as he closes the door behind him, he lets out a breath of relief. He curses his luck, knows fully well he’s in trouble now. He’s been careless and Waverly has somehow noticed. And that means he has to find Napoleon, lets him know, even if he doesn’t want to. Illya doesn’t want him to hear it from anyone else.

 

***

 

That evening, Illya finds himself in front of his partner’s apartment. He stands there and hesitates knocking for a moment, braces one hand on the door. Maybe he’s worrying for nothing, perhaps he didn’t have to tell Napoleon anything but his conversation with Waverly has left him wary and confused. After some contemplation, he decides he has to let the American know. 

“Cowboy,” he greets a rather surprised Napoleon once the door is opened.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Napoleon says with a slight quirk on his lips, his eyes twinkling. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“This is not planned,” Illya explains his presence after making himself comfortable on Napoleon’s sofa, tries to ignore Napoleon’s over the top bemused look. “There is something we should talk about. I wanted to talk in office but couldn’t find the right time.”

Illya seems anxious, his eyes always give too much away, and Napoleon figures it must be something of importance for him to come over to his place. 

“Drink?” Napoleon asks and Illya nods. Pouring him a glass of scotch, although Napoleon’s not sure liquor would be a good option for Illya at the moment, he hands him the drink and Illya accepts it, gulps half of it at one go. Yup, something’s bothering Illya alright. 

“Okay, Peril. What’s up?” Napoleon starts as he sits on the coffee table facing Illya.

“It is getting a bit obvious, isn’t it?” Illya says, the words rolling off his tongue, the worried tone in his voice evident. Napoleon, just like Illya had been with Waverly earlier that day, is not quite certain what Illya is getting at.

“Mmm, I don’t understand, what’s obvious?”

“I said, it’s getting obvious.”

Illya is hoping Napoleon will pick up on what he’s trying to say but Napoleon only continues to look lost. He raises an eyebrow at Illya. “What is?”

“Things, Cowboy,” Illya mutters evidently. 

He feels detailed elaboration for his predicament is not necessary. He takes a last sip of his scotch, drains the glass. Napoleon watches as Illya tilts his head back to drink and for a second, he finds himself wondering what it would feel like to attach his lips on that stretch of exposed skin. For a moment he had let his mind wander off. And he still doesn’t understand what Illya’s trying to tell him. 

“Peril?” Napoleon asks again. Illya looks at him, meets his gaze with brows furrowed. He places the empty glass on the table where Napoleon is sitting on. His lips part as if to say something but words fail to come out somehow. Illya’s hesitation and deliberation really heightens Napoleon’s curiosity. He lifts a hand, pokes one finger at Illya’s shoulder.

“What things, Peril?”

That only results in more fidgeting from Illya, this time biting the nail on his right thumb. Napoleon’s never seen Illya do that before. The sight is rather endearing.

“I’m worried, of making a mistake, and of who might see.”

“Mistake?” Napoleon asks, inclines his head after that last bit. 

He is aware the atmosphere in the living room has changed. Illya’s eyes are full, his expression bordering on vulnerable. Napoleon is trying his best to piece together Illya’s words so it would make more sense to him. But his last few words, Napoleon catches on and thinks, although it’s more on a hunch, understands what is currently swirling in Illya’s mind. But he still fears of being in the wrong so he stops himself from probing the matter further. 

Illya on the other hand still sits quietly, still knitting his brows and working overtime on his lower lip. He takes it for granted that Napoleon would magically know what he’d meant when he’d started the conversation earlier. He’s not sure whether what he’s trying to say is obvious to anyone else. Well shouldn’t it be obvious? He’s certain it is quite obvious to Gaby. And now Waverly has asked him about it. Surely this means Napoleon knows.

At least that is what Illya thinks, what is painfully obvious to him and _pressing, pressing on him_ of every hour, every day. That feeling in the pit of his stomach like he is about to burst out and say things in which he’s already known for quite sometime. It has to be said. 

“So,” Napoleon begins ever so cautiously again, his curiosity getting the better of him as the silence between them becomes tense. “Let’s start again, Peril. What is it that you want to tell me? Whatever it is, I’m here to listen. I won’t judge.”

Napoleon knows, feels that he already knows, but although his mind has worked it out, he won’t say anything, won’t give voice to it. After all, there is still a chance that he might be wrong, so he opts to listen. It’s the way of the quietly intelligent, that is how he thinks people perceive him, Napoleon Solo, clever, always thinking. He has to be on top of his game, be one step ahead of his opponent, and this time, his opponent is Illya.

Of course, it has become clear as day of light that Illya, his partner, and now one could say close friend, the one who broods and ponder a lot, has started to mean more than just that to him. He knows this. And every day this man never fails to fascinate Napoleon. His face could snap from stoniness to a cautious almost smile, and sometimes the rare ones where only Napoleon could see, to childlike enthusiasm. He seems blunt and uncomplicated, straightforward, inelegant and yet, his purity and simpleness intrigues Napoleon like no other. 

In fact, Napoleon has never met a more genuine person in his life like Illya. And for all of Napoleon’s extravagance, Illya’s simplicity grounds him.

The Russian has begun to fidget again by then and Napoleon can feel him about to deliver up whatever it is that’s bothering him. His voice starts off quietly, almost like a mumble.

“I try hard not to show too much, but sometimes slip and there are always people around us, watching. Looking.”

Napoleon stares at Illya and his cryptic words and Illya quickly averts his gaze. He doesn’t dare to look into those blue eyes for too long because he knows what he will see. He will see eyes that he shouldn’t be looking into for too long a stretch, lips he shouldn’t be dreaming to touch. _To kiss_.

“And who are they?”

Napoleon moves closer until their knees touch. He knows exactly what he is doing, he is filling the small space between themselves, and thus trespassing the other’s mental and emotional comfort zone. He’s not trying to be cruel, but he cannot help wanting to be closer to this beautiful man.

Illya can detect the subtle scents that comprises Napoleon Solo. He can smell the air that is warm around them. He imagines the well toned arms, imagines his body, his fingers that sometimes subtly touches his wrists, his legs as he imagines them in between his, all pressed up somewhere against a wall, kissing. And whatever soap or cologne Napoleon is using breaks through his reverie and makes his face burn hot, his eyes sting until he is forced to choose another path for his gaze. So long as it is not directly at Napoleon’s face. 

Napoleon somehow has managed to pick up the thread of their stilted conversation amidst the furious tangle of thoughts. He understands what Illya is worried of. He worries what those other people might think, of Gaby or Waverly watching them, whispering things about them, if they are not careful. Perhaps they are giving out the right signals, or wrong ones whichever one wants to perceive. But nothing really has happened between them. Nothing at all. Not like how Napoleon wants. Not yet.

When he is about to ask Illya again, the Russian begins to speak.

“You know, the people who watch, who thinks they see things? They might see me looking for too long and begin to think things.”

“Things?” 

“Things. You know, when people are involved with other people. Things like that.”

“I am not sure that I follow you, Peril,” Napoleon says with a smirk. He loves putting Illya on the spot. Loves making him squirm. It’s a lie to draw Illya out, just a little bit more and perhaps he will hear what he’s been waiting for, what he figures this is all about.

“Do I have to say it?” Illya growls, slightly gritting his teeth. “You know what I mean, Cowboy. You’re smirking.”

Napoleon feels guilty for causing his increased anxiety. But he can sense the flood gates opening. It will be any moment now, that change of mood from calm to bursting. 

Illya’s squirming and trembling hands grow more pronounced. He is still not meeting Napoleon’s eyes and pulls back slightly. He sighs, tries to make it natural to stifle the gasps when Napoleon moves forward, closer to where he is sitting. 

“Waverly asked you, didn’t he?”

Illya’s eyes snap up at Napoleon’s words as realisation hits him. “He-he asked you too?”

Napoleon nods. “He asked me before our debrief.”

Illya’s face is flushed now. He cannot believe Napoleon knows and had let him go through the past few uncomfortable minutes, leading him on when he already knows what he’d wanted to say. He tries to stand but Napoleon grabs his arms, sits him back down.

“Don’t,” Napoleon orders, his voice calm. “Let’s talk about it.”

Illya cannot tell whether it is anger or consternation at his perceived calm or whether it is something else he does not dare to label. It’s making his insides twist with pain but also pleasure. 

Napoleon presses on. “Let’s talk about what he’d asked us.”

“What did you tell him?” Illya returns the question to Napoleon without thinking. He sees the American rake his fingers through his dark hair, sees that Napoleon is just as nervous as he is. It’s a topic that’s never been broached. Napoleon draws in a shaky breath. 

“I told Waverly the truth. That there’s nothing going on between us. Not in the sense that he’s thinking.”

“Why is he asking this?”

“I think he’s just curious,” Napoleon smiles.

Illya lets out a string of frustrated monosyllabic utterances, not distinguishable words, not in English standard at any rate. Yep, it’s definitely Russian curses. But his frustration is not directed at Napoleon. Illya is not blaming him nor is he angry at him. Because he’d told Waverly nothing but the truth. Illya wonders why he couldn’t answer Waverly as truthfully as Napoleon had. 

“Illya,” Napoleon starts again. His next movement startles Illya because he’s moved in closer, nearly touches the front of his brown jacket. Illya flinches because Napoleon’s too close. He sees Napoleon’s eyes are large and a darker more vivid shade of blue, his pupils blown. They spill into his vision and he has to ascertain that he is still breathing at that point. Suddenly, without warning, words are spilling out of his mouth.

“Cowboy, we’re partners.”

“Yes,” Napoleon breathes. “In every sense of the word Illya, so what are you saying?”

“We’re always together and when we’re not, it-it is difficult not to think,” Illya stutters. He licks his lips, continues, “Difficult not to think about you. I cannot think or look or walk without thinking of this. And I fear, people will notice me, thinking. Always thinking about you. It’s a matter of time people will notice this. I fear this will happen.”

“I see.”

Illya groans loudly, gapes at Napoleon. “Is that all you can say?! I see?”

Napoleon pulls the lapel of Illya’s jacket, drawing him closer. “Actually, Peril, I think the same way. I have the same problem. Think about you all the time. Without the crazy obsessive worrying part, that is.” 

“Why didn’t you say something to me?” Illya asks disbelievingly, his heart thudding in his chest.

“Why didn’t you?”

Napoleon considers how Illya is going to burst at the dangerous game they’re currently playing. 

“You know it is not easy. And this is not something normal, Cowboy.”

“Huh, not normal you say,” Napoleon murmurs. He’s amazed at his own self control. Their lips are merely inches apart now. “So what do you propose we should do about this abnormality?”

“Sooner or later, I will slip and I’ll look at you and someone will notice us.”

“But who cares what people think, Peril? I don’t.”

Suddenly Illya stands up, his abrupt movement startling Napoleon. He watches, slightly in horror as Illya heads for the door. Nope, this is not what he had expected to occur. Perhaps he’s pushed Illya too far. He feels cold at the sudden absence of Illya’s body close to him and panics at the realisation that the Russian is about to leave. He cannot let him escape with this thing hanging, whatever it is between them, unresolved. 

“Illya, please,” he tries with a tone that he knows could soothe his partner. It works because Illya turns at the sound of his voice.

“It’s a mistake, Cowboy, this conversation. I should leave. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. We will be okay.”

“No,” Napoleon says, a pause and then he ventures right into Illya’s personal space. “Stay, okay? Why don’t you stay. We’ll talk this through.”

Napoleon waits and when Illya says nothing, he offers, “I’m sorry if I had made you uncomfortable, Peril. You know I’m an idiot as always.”

Illya’s breathing calms a bit and his mind lingers at Napoleon’s words. He weighs his options. He could stay or he could get away from the mess he’d started. But then this is his chance to clear things out with Napoleon. 

“Maybe I should go,” he mutters, lies. Because he does want to stay even if his head says flee. Yes, that’s the right thing to do. Flee before things get too complicated for him to handle but when Napoleon places a hand on his shoulder…

_Fuck._

Illya’s breathing stops. 

“I don’t want you to leave all upset, Illya. You should stay.”

Napoleon’s all calm but when Illya pushes him slightly back, he grabs his wrists with both hands. Illya tries to pull away but Napoleon’s hold is strong. He has to say something, to do something to stop Napoleon from crossing the threshold. It would be impossible to turn back once they’ve crossed the line.

Napoleon glimpses Illya’s eyes on his then slowly lets go of his wrists. He wants to see whether Illya will run. But he doesn’t. Napoleon sees this as his first step towards victory. 

“Illya?”

Illya’s index finger taps at his thigh. Then he gestures an arm, going up as if to reach for Napoleon then it falls back down to his side. He’s not sure if he could face up to his demons. In the end, he panics, reaches for the door, his mind a mess but his voice and lips fail him when Napoleon grabs him, gentle not harsh and expertly turns him around to face him once again.

Illya’s fight, the surge in his muscles, the imminent threat of violence, a possible punch to Napoleon’s handsome face fades away. He barely registers anything before the gap between them vanishes in a second. He feels soft, wet and warm lips meet his own. The beginning and the end of Waverly’s question, the one Illya could not answer in the beginning, are sealed in that kiss.

Illya sighs audibly. If it is a sound of protest, then it is weak and half hearted. It is a sound more like petering out, a sort of release he’s contained in for months for his partner. Napoleon feels more than he hears and it is accompanied by a sharp gasp as both mutually react to the kiss. 

Illya immediately quits his more passive role as recipient. He invades Napoleon’s mouth with rapturous intensity, pressing him against the door, thrusting his tongue into the hollows of his mouth that he daily glimpses at. That mouth that drives him silently mad. He tangles their tongue before retreating slightly and sucks on Napoleon’s lips. Their legs have turned to jelly, almost succumbs to gravity and Illya opens his eyes, withdraws to see that their positions have changed. Napoleon has slid down the door slightly, and he’s smiling up at Illya with heavy lidded eyes.

“You’ve messed me up real good, Peril.”

Illya is speechless to say the least. He feels light headed, giddy. He pulls Napoleon up by his collar, almost on eye level. Damn, isn’t Napoleon all kinds of gorgeous? Words fail him for the umpteenth time that night, so he simply kisses him again, gentler this time, but still drawing out the sighs from the American. His fingers tangle in his dark hair. How Napoleon drives him crazy, he will never know. Finally he lets go of that delicious mouth for a few seconds to gasp for air. 

“I want you, Cowboy,” he murmurs a little breathless, leans his forehead against him.

Napoleon half chuckles against his lips.

“And if Waverly asks? If anyone notices?”

“I don’t care now.”

Agreeing at Illya’s last point, both agents shuffle their way to the middle of the room to discuss the matter of Illya’s wants and needs, a little bit further.  


End file.
